I wanted to protest—wanted to clamp my thighs together in some sort of misguided attempt at modesty. I knew damn well I wasn’t going to come like this—I was too self-conscious. Too aware.

But at the same time, I heard his voice. Heard his desire. And there was something about the command in his voice that made me want to comply. He was turned on—that much was an absolute certainty. And there was both power and excitement in knowing that it was my body and my reactions to him that were pushing him toward that edge.

“Legs,” he repeated, and I kicked modesty to the curb and slowly pushed my knees as wide apart as they would go.

“Oh, baby,” he said. “I like you waxed. You’re slick and wet and I can see just how turned on you are. Tell me.”

“Very turned on.”

“You’re so wet, baby. Slip a finger inside your cunt and see how wet you are. No,” he added, when I closed my eyes as I complied. “Eyes on me. There you go,” he said, his own gaze dipping down to watch me slide my forefinger into my slick, wet heat.

It was, too. I was looking right into his eyes as I drew my finger, slick and musky with my own desire, in and out of my mouth. It was naughty, erotic, deliciously sexy, and I sucked harder, never looking away from his face, as the heat between us built and built to such a frenzy I could practically see the atoms spinning in the overheated air.

“Now touch yourself.” His voice was raw, as if it was taking all his effort to remain in control. “Keep sucking, but use your other hand. Pinch your nipples—hard, god, yes, just like that,” he said as I took my hard nipple between my fingers and pinched it tight.

I sucked in air, overwhelmed by the maelstrom building inside me. Power and heat radiating through me. My breasts, my belly, my sex.

“Oh, baby, you want to be fucked,” he said, and I blushed, realizing that he could see the way my sex clenched and tightened in a desperate, driving need.

“Go ahead,” he said. “The finger in your mouth, slide it down, thrust it inside—no, two fingers—oh, holy hell, Kat, I swear you’re going to be the death of me,” he said as he watched me touch myself in time with his words.

I never thought I could do something like this—could display both my body and my own arousal so intimately—but with Cole the fact of being on display made me more excited, not less. I wanted him to see the effect he had on me. I wanted the feeling to grow. And as he told me what to do—to fingerfuck myself, to tease my clit—I did as he directed, letting my vision go glassy and my body tense. Feeling the sensation build, the desire grow.

Then, when it got to be too much—when just one tiny push would send me tumbling over the edge—I forced myself to focus on his face. On his eyes.

And I watched the hot burn of desire reflected there as his words and my touch made me shatter into a million pieces.

When my body quit shaking, I collapsed against him, breathing deep. “Do you want me to go down on you?” I asked, murmuring the question against his chest.

“No,” he whispered.

“But you haven’t—and I want you to—”

He kissed the top of my head. “I’m content.”

“You’re hard as steel,” I said, because there was no ignoring his erection that tented his sweatpants and pressed insistently against my thigh.

“I like it,” he said. “You make me hard, Kat. I don’t see any reason to change that just yet.”

Considering how guys talked about blue balls, his words surprised me. Then again, I wasn’t a guy, but I could understand how delicious the sensation of simply being turned on could feel. Besides, at the moment all I wanted to do was lie there, my body against his, his fingers lazily stroking my back.

“I think I’ve died,” I said after a moment. “I think this must be heaven.”

He trailed his fingers from my sex up over my breasts and to my lips. “Feels like heaven to me.”

He brushed my hair back from my face. “I’m three for three,” he said, making me laugh. “I assume you won’t doubt me again.”

“Sure,” I said playfully as I stood up to stretch. I moved to the couch and curled up against the soft leather cushions. “Why do you think I picked you? Certainly not for your money or the fact that you can speak Italian. But give a girl a good orgasm . . .”

“How did you know I speak Italian?” He’d stood and was heading toward the wet bar in the corner of the room.

I frowned, trying to remember as he opened a small fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. “I’m not sure. Maybe Angie said something once. Or Jahn,” I added, referring to her uncle, and the man who had been a mentor to all three of the knights.

“Toss me my clothes, would you?” I added, after Cole brought over a bottle of Shiraz and two glasses. “Feel free not to bother with your shirt. I like the view.”

“As do I,” he said, eyeing me thoroughly before retrieving my shorts and top for me. “But this way I get to enjoy watching you take it all off again.”

“I always knew you were clever.” He grinned, then came over and poured us both some wine. He handed me a glass, then took a seat next to me.

“How come you never talk about it? Italy, I mean.”

He swirled the wine in his glass as if considering the question. “I don’t talk about a lot of things,” he finally said.

“No, I guess you don’t. Why not?”

“I like to look forward, not back. And that was just another time in my life that’s over and done.”

“Bad?”

“No. Good, actually.” The way he said it made me think that the realization surprised him. As if there were far too few good periods lurking in his past.

“I’ve always thought it would be exciting to live in another country. Italy’s not on my list, but I have a fantasy of living in Paris for a year. I want to see all the seasons change on the Champs-Elysées.”

“And are you alone in this fantasy?”

I took a long sip of my wine, my eyes on Cole. “No,” I said simply.

He leaned back on the couch, then patted his legs. I stretched out, my feet on his lap, a glass of wine in my hands. I glanced at the rug where he’d made me come, and couldn’t help but think how quickly things had shifted from scorching hot to sweet.